


Born To Fight

by Sinister_Kid



Series: Midnight Madness [7]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Beginnings, Canon Compliant, Childhood, Children, Gen, Mild Language, Origin Story, Ostwick (Dragon Age), Templars (Dragon Age), The Chantry (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:47:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23273455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinister_Kid/pseuds/Sinister_Kid
Summary: “You were born to fight, little one,” he said, but gentler, smiling. “So why waste what a magnificent gift the Maker has given you? Why not fulfill your purpose instead?”---A snippet of an origin story for a female warrior Trevelyan. Might one day expand and make it a series. For now it's a one shot.
Series: Midnight Madness [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1155851





	Born To Fight

_Ostwick Chantry, 9:29 Dragon_

A scream echoed loudly through the antechamber, making the heads of the crowd of Templars all turn at the grating sound. It was a child, yelling at the top of their lungs, but they weren’t in pain. No, that sound was the sound of unbridled _rage_ that came from the child’s lips just before they were dragged out of the initiate’s quarters. The room assigned for females, to be exact. Out came a disgruntled Mother, dragging the girl by her hair before the cluster of Templars.

Among them, Knight-Lieutenant Edmond, who’d been recently assigned as trainer alongside Ser Marilyn, and was about to be late for this morning’s exercises, as this turn of events was far too intriguing to turn a blind eye to. He and the other Templars in his company all stopped to stare at the feisty child the Mother clutched, in naught but a nightgown just brushing her ankles, honey brown hair wild and frizzy on her head. “Knight-Lieutenant!” Mother Clara exclaimed, exasperated.

At the moment, he was the most senior ranking Templar at the Chantry, and too often Clara came to him with all her troubles. They’d just gotten another bout of initiates only yesterday, this girl among them. He’d expected to have problems with some of the more unruly children eventually, but not after only one night among them, and certainly not from this one, of all children. Bann Trevelyan’s youngest, if he was not mistaken. High-born child of a noble, but evidently a brat, if he must say.

“Everything alright, ma’am?” he asked, lifting a dark brow, though knowing very well there was something wrong. The girl kicked and fussed, growling at the Mother as she spoke.

“This young lady absolutely refuses to behave, serrah,” she said. “She won’t eat, she won’t bathe, she won’t dress, she won’t so much as brush her dirty mop!”

“I can see that.” 

“And all she’s done is pitch a fit since the moment she got here!” Once more the girl attempted to kick the Mother, who leaned down to glare at her, nose to nose, and say, “Now you _will_ behave like a proper lady before the Knight-”

_Smack!_

Edmond’s eyes widened in amazement when the miscreant _slapped_ the Revered Mother right across the cheek. Absolutely stunned by the act, Clara could only gape at the impertinent eight year old in utter amazement. Not even the most disrespectful of sorts would ever be so bold as to _hit_ a Mother like that. The other Templars gasped in shock, and one of the Knight-Templars even made a move to intervene, but Edmond held him back. He was far too curious of this child.

“Well, well,” he said, then clicked his tongue. “Looks like we have a fighter, lads,” he said, and nearby Ser Marilyn snorted at his words. He bent and placed his hands on his knees to get a look at the girl. Two fiery eyes, brown in color, glared up at him with such hatred it was unbelievable. This, by every definition, was a ‘problem child’. See, this here, Ser Edmond was convinced, was what was wrong with the Free Marches these days. Nobody ever hit children anymore.

She spat in his face, but unlike Mother Clara, Edmond had no qualms with backhanding her in turn. She let out a small wince as her head spun, and grabbed her face. When her eyes met his, shock had taken place of her anger momentarily, and her jaw dropped. Right, he half figured no one had ever struck the noble child before, as her face just then made such quite obvious. Edmond smiled at the reaction he garnered, wiping dribble from his cheek with the back of a gloved hand.

“You’re going to learn better manners, young lady,” he said. He turned to Clara. “Lock ‘er in the broom closet for an hour.”

“In the broom closet?” Clara questioned, wide eyed. He nodded.

“No food, no water, and no letting her out regardless of protest. Maybe that’ll teach her a lesson.”

He turned to head out of the chamber and back to his duties, the Knights following in step, but he only made it a few paces before he heard another blood curdling scream and felt something small and feather light jump on his back. To his surprise, the little wildling started climbing him like a bloody spider monkey and just as he was reaching behind him to pry her off, she reached around and grabbed his nose, then yanked it as hard as she could to the right.

Blood gushed out of it–she’d effectively _broken_ it–so he did the only sensible thing and grabbed her by her hair. She wailed, and let go, using both hands to try to pry his fingers apart, and he used the opportunity to yank her around to his front, then let her dangle, kicking and screaming, before plopping her on the floor in front of him. With his other hand he reached to touch his glove to his lip, seeing the thick gob of crimson when he looked down at his fingers.

He huffed. “Make a better Templar than a lay-sister,” he remarked, chuckling. “Perhaps she’s better fit for the training yard than the broom closet.”

She was a bit too young to train still, but she was cunning, and perhaps it would be _just_ the sort of discipline she needed.

“Are you mad?!” Ser Marilyn gasped. “Send this girl back to the Bann, sir!” she pleaded. “Or better yet, the bloody orphanage, if he won’t have her! Anywhere but to the training grounds.”

“She’s still too young to train, serrah,” Clara protested, although meekly.

He ignored both women, and simply grinned at the little girl he clutched, who stopped squirming long enough to stare up at him in amazement. She obviously didn’t think someone would be _happy_ with her antics. Probably thought the more she misbehaved the more likely they _would_ send her home, which was just what she wanted anyway. She hadn’t counted on Ser Edmond being impressed by her fighting spirit, or see some potential as a warrior. “What’s your name?” he asked.

Her nostrils flared, but she answered quietly with, “Abby.”

“Abby is it?”

“Abigail,” Mother Clara interjected with, to which Abby stuck out her tongue at the woman.

Edmond chuckled. “Aye, little lass, we’ll make a Templar of you yet,” he said, then dragged her off to the training yard by that honey colored hair, whether she liked it or not.

* * *

A week later she sat on a bench with a pouting bottom lip jutting out, arms folded, crumpling her leather jerkin, while the other children took their lessons. Ser Marilyn stood next to Ser Edmond, almost matching the girl’s stance, while the boys worked through their morning exercises as instructed. Blonde hair swept in a tight bun at the nape of her neck, blue eyes staring right back at Abby's with a scowl. She refused to listen to anyone still, so she watched instead.

The only one she’d pay any mind to was Edmond, but only because he didn’t treat her with any special privilege. Despite her being a girl, or even the child of a noble, he was just as tough on her as he would be anyone, and if she backtalked him, out came the whippings. But she was starting to balk at even Edmond’s treatment, and he knew the reason why. The girl was _scared_. She’d obviously never left home until her family dismissed her to the Chantry, as they often did with second or third born children.

She was fourth born of Trevelyan, and would never gain a title. She was guaranteed to be given over to the Chantry to serve as either a cleric or a Templar from the moment she was conceived, and would only ever be expected to fulfil that duty. Obviously she was resentful of that, but as she was only a child, her knowledge of how the world worked was limited still. Though her various methods of acting out were surprisingly creative, and never ceased to amaze him.

Her latest was simply doing the exact opposite of what anyone told her to do.

Most children cried when they were homesick, but Abagail, on the other hand, was simply recalcitrant. “She refuses to obey,” Marilyn continued expressing as they supervised training, “Even if it’s totally counterproductive to what she actually wants. She does it simply to cause a fuss. We need to send her home, Ed. If she won’t train, and she won’t excel at her lessons with the Sisters, she’ll be about as useful as a stump.”

He snorted a little at that, shooting a quick glance at Abby, the topic of their conversation. Absently touching his nose for a brief moment. A mage healer did a bang up job of fixing it, but it was still a bit touchy, and often he wrinkled it, sniffling a little, as it felt congested still. “What, you mean send her back to the Bann to be trussed up and married off to a Lord one day, wasting her life cowing to some perfumed Count? The lass’s got potential, Mare, she just needs the right push, is all.”

“I’ve tried everything, Ed,” Marilyn said, shaking her head. “Nothing works.”

“Maybe you’re just not trying hard enough.”

“Then _you_ do it, if you want her to train so badly.”

He hummed a little. The idea of giving her private tutelage _had_ crossed his mind. But the Knight-Captain would never approve of him abandoning his other duties to give one-on-one training to an initiate. There were too few trainers at Ostwick to handle the responsibilities without him. Two with a gaggle of young ones was bad enough, but to put all the remaining initiates on Marilyn’s shoulders? The Captain wouldn’t allow for it. Private lessons would have to be done in increments.

“I _do_ want her to excel,” he mumbled as he thought it over.

Marilyn and the others couldn’t understand _why_ though. But maybe they just didn’t see what Edmond did. The Lieutenant himself had been much like her at that age. Not so violent, but mischievous. He was an orphan. He’d been dumped on the steps of the poorhouse as a babe, and ran the streets with the other urchins. Becoming a Templar had saved him from a life of crime. They might’ve had nothing in common otherwise, but he could relate to Abby in small ways.

His own stubbornness got him through the years, and hers would too, provided it was aimed in the right direction. So if that sturdy old goat of a Knight-Commander of his could turn a street rat into a dedicated Templar once upon a time, than by the Maker, so could he turn this beasty little lass into one too, damn it. He rubbed the scruff on his cheek and sighed. “I’ll have to get some one-on-one time with the lass,” he told her. “Do you think you could handle things on your own for a bit?”

“I’d be glad to if it means I don’t have to deal with her,” she grunted. 

He chuckled, and said, “You just don’t think I can do it, and you’d like to see me try.”

“Too right,” she nodded, smirking. “But if anyone can get through to her, maybe it _is_ you.”

He couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face at the challenge. They paused in conversation to start the recruits with the next set of exercises before they would break for midday meal, but Edmond didn’t head inside when they were dismissed. Instead, he crossed the yard and strode right up to Abby, just as she was getting up from the bench. “Ah, no, lass, you’re staying out here.” She scowled up at him. Blowing loose strands from her braid out of her eyes only added to the hilarity of it.

“But I’m hungry,” she complained.

“As am I. Barking at trainees all morning works up quite the appetite, as it were. But you and I have work to do, lass.” He gestured to the partition where weapon racks held all manner of swords, shields, and practice bows. “Pick up a weapon,” he instructed. She blinked up at him for a moment still, looking like she was warring with herself over whether or not she’d obey, before finally slumping her shoulders and stepping toward the rack full of wooden practice swords. 

He shook his head. “Not one of those.” He pointed to the sharpened metal blades on the second rack. “One of those.”

Brown eyes widened at his instruction. The initiates were never to touch the edged metal blades, only the practice ones, which was why she often liked to poke at them, because it wasn’t allowed. But now he told her to do just that, and she eyed him curiously for a moment, as if he were daft. “Well, go on then,” he repeated. Slowly she walked over to the rack and reached for the nearest short sword. It was barely much more than a dirk, but her frame was too slight to properly hold it.

She struggled for a moment to heft the blade.

“Higher,” he said.

“It’s too heavy!” she whined, dropping the sword in the dirt, and he huffed.

“Pick it up,” he barked, but she wouldn’t. “I said pick it up!” She flinched at his tone, but otherwise stood unmoving still, glaring up at him. He reached for the sword sheathed at his side and drew it, then aimed it at her, and she clenched her little fists. She didn’t think he would really strike her down. He wouldn’t, of course, but she didn’t need to know that. “Pick up the sword and fight me!” he demanded, pointing his sword at her throat, and again she flinched. 

“No,” she spat, her voice shaking, and though her stance said otherwise, he knew she was fearful now.

“What’s the matter, lass? Don’t have the stomach now that there’s a real threat? Content to cause a ruckus all hours of the day and night, but now that you’ve a blade at your throat, you turn white as a ghost? You’re just a coward then?”

“I’m _not_ a coward!” she shouted. “I’m not scared of _anything_!”

“Bullshit,” he sneered, with hardly a concern to how he spoke. “You’re harmless as a nug, little lass.” She growled at that remark. “Prove me wrong then. Pick up the sword and fight me. Come on little lass, I know you’ve been just _itching_ to try me. Think you can take me? Now’s your chance.”

Finally, with an angry snarl she reached for the sword and lifted it with a grunt, then swung wildly as hard as she could. Easily enough he side-stepped, avoiding the pitiful swing and deflected the sword with his own, tapping the end with the tip of the blade, knocking it from her grasp. She huffed, and again she reached for the sword and attempted to swing it. Once more, he knocked it from her hands, this time with a little shove from his boot, sending her sprawling to the dirt.

He thought she might try for a third time, but instead she slumped there on the ground where she sat, clutching her knees, and started to sob. Finally, for the first time since her arrival, showing some other emotion than anger. It seemed he’d effectively broken her resolve. He sheathed his blade at his side once more and stared down at her. “I want to go home,” she sobbed, tears streaming down her reddened cheeks.

He sighed a little, then bent to kneel before her.

“You can’t go home,” he told her, and watched her lip tremble.

“Why not?” she asked.

“Because your duty to your family is here,” he answered. “This is what you were born for, little lass. You were born to be given to the Chantry. Born to serve the Maker. That means staying here, devoting your life to the Chant, your heart and soul to Andraste, your hands to hard labor, and your head bowed in prayer. Just as we all must.” He touched her chin with the tip of his finger, so that those fiery eyes would meet his, and added, “It’s either this, or spend all day with the lay-sisters.”

She scrunched her face in another pout, evidently finding the prospect of such far _less_ desirable, as he suspected she might.

“You were born to fight, little one,” he said, but gentler, smiling. “So why waste what a magnificent gift the Maker has given you? Why not fulfill your purpose instead?”

He didn’t know what did it, what words got through to her, but something began in that moment. For in that moment, Abagail Trevelyan’s jaw tightened in newfound resolve, she stiffened that pouting lip, and gave a slight nod. Then she stood up, not bothering to brush the dirt from her trousers, bent to pick up the sword at her feet, and gripped it tightly. Edmond rose to stare down at this precious gift the Maker had left on the Templars’ doorstep, beaming proudly as she lifted the blade and took her stance.

Edmond could feel it just then, the beginning of something. Maker only knew what that might be, but for the moment, it was the true beginnings of Abagail’s training as a Templar, as she lifted that blade and dutifully, without complaint, began to take instruction from the Lieutenant. The beginnings of greatness, Edmond himself witnessed firsthand that day. The moment young Abagail Trevelyan, fourth born of House Trevelyan of Ostwick, would accept her destiny, with teeth bared.

Gaze hardened like steel, and an iron clad grip.

Aye, it was a humble start, but the grand beginning of something that would one day shape the world.


End file.
